


Timing is money

by rosehead



Series: Bottom Dollar [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Gay Keith (Voltron), Gen, I'm Bad At Titles, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27696379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosehead/pseuds/rosehead
Summary: How do you get a boyfriend?Easy. You hit him with your car.. . .Lance is in a twenty-four-seven-open grocery store, trying to escape the snow outside (and also trying to feed the stupid dumb vending machine the crinkliest dollar imaginable), when a very handsome (and incredibly hot) stranger hands him a dollar out of exasperation, and Lance barely recognizes him from his university before the stranger leaves.Or: this is the story of how a dollar bill is used as a pick-up tactic by the stupidest idiots to ever idiot.
Relationships: Acxa/Veronica (Voltron), Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Allura & Coran & Hunk & Keith & Lance & Pidge | Katie Holt & Shiro, Hunk/Shay (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: Bottom Dollar [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2025517
Comments: 4
Kudos: 117





	Timing is money

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm actually a nutjob. Way to go, Ro. 
> 
> Also, I will probably be writing this as well as the time travel fic that I am struggling to complete, so yeah. Modern AUs are just so much easier to write, and this is pretty self-indulgent. I want more fluff, y'all. More fluff and crackhead Klance and Lance and Keith being idiots. They never got to be kids in the actual show, and I kinda want them to act like the kids they never got to be (even if they're technically adults in this). 
> 
> P.S. I love Voltron with all my heart and soul, but I feel like I know fanon Keith and Lance and co. more than I know the actual canonical show characters. Fanfiction has gotten me closer to Voltron characters more than the show ever will. It's a little sad that I remember fanon Klance so much and canon characters so little. Mostly because there were such limited interactions in the show.
> 
> P.P.S. Like, at this point, when I think 'klance' I don't see the fanon Keith and Lance. I see AO3 Keith and Lance. I don't even think of the show anymore. I think of AO3, because fanfiction took Voltron characters and fleshed them out and made actual _people_ of them way more than the show did.
> 
> P.P.P.S. Which is mildly concerning. Is that concerning? I feel like that's concerning.

Lance knew he wouldn't like it in a place as cold as Laurel, Illinois. 

The place was like a freaking icebox, alright? His Cuban ass was definitely not made for those kinds of high temperatures, even if he hadn't actually grown up in Cuba. He had dramatic license to exaggerate. 

But, not being used to the cold meant that when his car heater broke down (which it inadvertently did) in cold, cold Laurel, Lance had to trudge out of Rhonda the Honda and to the nearest store so he could buy maybe a bag of Cheetos, walk back to his car, sit in the depressing coldness, and munch on his snack. He usually did that whenever the heater gave out, mainly because it wasn't like he could help it anymore.

God hated him that way.

So yeah. Here he was, trying to feed the wrinkliest dollar in the world into the slot on the vending machine with no success and increasing impatience. Lance didn't want to ask the cashier for a smooth dollar bill, (a.) because she looked dead on her feet, and (b.) he'd already asked her several random questions about where the Cheetos were and if they sold Sour Patch Kids, so now he didn't want to bother her anymore.

It was eleven o'clock at night. He couldn't blame poor--her name-tag read _Jen_ \--he couldn't blame poor Jen.

But still. If this went on, his car was going to get frozen to a pothole in the 7-Eleven parking lot and he would have to trudge home _without Cheetos._

A truly horrifying notion.

Lance growled at the bill in his hands, crumpling it even further in his frustration. He stared despairingly through the smudged glass at the bright orange bag of Cheetos, hovering tantalizingly in front of him. For a second, he considered punching the glass, but while that was illegal and all, he would probably break a finger or two, and he needed his fingers if he wanted to play football properly.

But goddammit, he was seriously considering breaking the glass, grabbing the Cheetos, and making a break for it before Jen regained sentience.

Lance glanced out the glass door of the store in front of him. It was still snowing heavily outside, and his car already had a proper coating of frost. Ugh. It would take at least ten minutes to get all that nasty frozen water gunk off his windshield.

His attention was momentarily occupied as he rifled through his wallet for another dollar, and didn't notice the boy coming through the door. Only when he was tapped on the shoulder did he realize that _yes, someone was talking to him._

Indigo eyes from under thick black eyebrows and dark, messy bangs stared at him. Lance just gaped at him.

"Do you need a dollar?" 

The owner of the pale, narrow face (which was stunningly pretty, might he add) also possessed a nice voice. Hoarse and raspy, as if it was rusty from disuse. It sounded like his laugh would be bold and sexy. 

God, eleven o'clock Lance Brain really needed to take a goddamn break. Otherwise he'd end up like Jen.

So he just nodded and took the dollar from the stranger's fingers, exchanging the crinkly dollar. The boy just took a look at the bill in his hand and raised his eyebrows. 

"Wow. That's really wrinkly."

"Thanks," Lance managed, as if it was a compliment. Now that the boy wasn't quite as close to his face as before, Lance could properly see him. He was bundled up well, in rather well-worn, clean clothing, complete with a black thermal jacket, a maroon scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, and a bright red beanie nestled over his dark hair. 

_Fucking hell_. 

Lance recognized him now. 

He'd seen the kid in his core requirement class a few times, even if he didn't talk to anyone. Mullet--because that was what his hairstyle was, and Lance was too ashamed to admit that he didn't know the guy's name--looked familiar enough for that. Strangely, he managed to pull off the outdated hairstyle.

"This is one crisp dollar."

Mullet eyed him in surprise, and Lance realized that he'd blurted it out a second later. 

"Yeah, uh, my brother likes to iron them." Oh my god. What had _happened_ to Lance's exemplary social skills? "He'll be happy to straighten this out." Mullet lifted the wrinkly dollar, as if for proof, and Lance couldn't wipe the thought of how fucking _cute_ that was.

"That's...interesting."

Mullet nodded with a hint of a smile on his face as he walked past. He could probably sense how Lance's brain wasn't working optimally, and _how did he look so...non-sleepy?_

Ugh. Lance just wanted to get his Cheetos, sit in his ridiculously cold car, and eat like the moron he was. Who had told him not to go to Pidge's place for movie night? Hunk. And who had convinced Hunk and then ended up driving home alone for his dump laptop? Lance. Who was the second string tight end for their university's football team but still managed to be the biggest idiot in the world? Again, _Lance_.

His name was the answer to a lot of dumb questions.

Lance practically shoved the dollar bill into the machine, pressed the buttons, and fished the pack of Cheetos out with minimal difficulty. Mullet had already disappeared behind some aisle, and Lance didn't see him again. Jen checked out Lance's single bag of Cheetos and Sour Patch Kids as slowly as possible. 

Lance grumbled when he finally got to his car. It was completely submerged in cold, horrid, yucky, wet snow. That was one thing he didn't like about water--it took whatever freaking form it pleased. Sure, Lance loved water and swimming and oceans and everything blue, but that didn't include a love for cold hail/sleet/snow/whatnot that could possibly kill someone.

He hated snow. Ugh.

It took Lance ten minutes to scrape the snow off his windshield with his shoe (which he sorely regretted taking off) and then another minute to actually open his door. See, his car was The Family Car (passed down to him and aptly named Little Bastard by Marco) even if his dad had a different sedan for work, and she was old. Lance knew exactly how to work her--like he couldn't back up too fast or he would probably zoom into the car behind him, or he had to wait three seconds before opening after unlocking or the alarm would go off. 

So he had to just stand there patiently, waiting for Little Bastard to open up. When it did, he quickly got in and shut the door before something else could happen, and immediately winced at how cold the seat was. 

_Jesus fucking_ _Christ_. 

His ass was suddenly a block of ice. Even his sweat had probably turned to snowflakes.

Thankfully, the dratted car still worked, even if it was basically a patchwork of old rusty machinery that Pidge _really_ wanted to take apart. Lance slid the key (basically now a large heavy chunk of frozen metal) into the ignition and turned the engine on. 

According to his (somewhat faulty calculations) he'd be home in ten minutes, though that depended on whether Little Bastard decided to get stuck in slush or not. Either way would end in him freezing his skinny ass off. 

Eh. 

Might as well.

Lance reversed out of the parking space as fast as he could without getting tailgated by the cars nearby and pulled out of the parking lot (which, by the way, didn't even have proper boundaries) and onto the dark road, which was just barely lit by exhausted-looking streetlights. He turned his headlights onto to full power, and even then they just illuminated the snowflakes falling in front of the car.

Lance just huffed and started driving. 

After five minutes of relatively peaceful driving--not counting all the potholes he had to dodge and all the idiot squirrels he yelled at--visibility was practically zero. Lance couldn't see a foot from the windshield, and if he squinted any more he'd need glasses.

Alright, so he was two minutes away from home. No prob, Bob. All he had to do was drive super carefully or just push the car home. He'd choose the former, because as great of a quarterback Lance was, he wasn't pushing home a family-sized van up his driveway. Yeah, no thank you. 

Lance closed his eyes for a brief second. 

When he opened them again, there was a flash of bright, bright red. 

Lance's brother Marco (the crazy one) had only ever probably given him one useful piece of advice in life: _when there's ice on the road, never hit the brakes_. You'll skid off the road and into snow. Slow down gently, press the brakes slowly, and you'll be safe. 

This time, he didn't have time for Marco's surprisingly useful advice, because it wasn't just his safety he was worried about this time. He slammed on the brakes, feeling the car's wheels skid and slide under him, but it stayed on the road. 

What didn't stay on the road was the person in front of him, briefly illuminated by his headlights. 

Lance barely saw a pale, startled face and a flash of indigo eyes before there was a sickening thud (even if it wasn't too loud) and his car bounced backward slightly. Almost automatically, Lance pushed open the door, hands slipping on the handle, and slammed it shut. His heart was thumping loudly and hard in his ears as he stumbled to the crumpled form on the curbside and fell to his knees at the person's side. 

"Oh my fucking god I'm so sorry," he said in one breath, not even pausing to register how he'd left his jacket behind and his breath was coming out in white clouds. 

The stranger rolled over with a low groan. "To be honest, I don't really blame you."

Lance's heart stuttered when he recognized the stranger. It was Mullet, from the 7-Eleven. The one who had handed him the crispest dollar to ever exist.

From up close, his features were way more lovely. Like, the eyes were purpler, skin paler, nose sharper. Everything. Even if there was a small cut above his left eyebrow that was bleeding way too much not to need stitches. The snow around them had a few drops of blood spattered on it, the contrast between the scarlet and white stark and strangely beautiful.

It clicked after a second. 

"Holy shit, you're bleeding."

The stranger grimaced, raking his bangs out of his eyes with an glove-less hand that was trembling with the cold. "Yeah, I noticed." He squinted at Lance, and then his eyes widened. "Ah. Vending-machine-dollar-guy hit me with his car."

"Lance," Lance supplied, still jittery about how Mullet had just calmly clapped a blue-with-the-cold hand over his eyebrow and was now making conversation. 

"Keith." 

Damn it. What a hot fucking name. 

Keith lowered his hand, studied the bloodstains on it (and there were a _lot_ ), and then covered his eyebrow again. "I'll need to stick some gauze on it. Do you have a first-aid kit in your car?"

Lance cursed himself for his thoughtlessness, as if past him should've known that at one point he would hit a stranger. "No, but I'll--I'll take you to the hospital."

Keith frowned. "I can--"

"Just let me take you and maybe don't sue me for damaging your hot face," Lance interrupted, raising his eyebrows in what was supposed to be an inviting look. What the hell. He wasn't known for his smoothness anyway. "And don't judge me. The heater's damaged and my car's a little bastard." 

Inside joke.

Keith just stared at him ( _fuck_ he was attractive) and nodded uncertainly, like he thought Lance would forcibly hustle him into the ER. Lance would, of course. He might have been the youngest sibling of five but he could _Veronica it_ pretty well.

. . .

Keith needed five stitches. In his left eyebrow. 

Lance stayed with him in the ER (even though if was now eleven thirty) because hey, he'd slammed into Keith with his car and the guy looked exhausted. Besides, Keith looked even prettier in fluorescent light, even though there was dark bags under his eyes and a permanent little wrinkle in his forehead. 

The nurse had given Lance an appraising look when Lance had insisted on staying, but she'd just handed him the clipboard to check Keith's responses, which were pretty monosyllabic. Not surprising, considering he was sitting there with an ice pack on his face.

"Age?"

"Twenty."

"Allergies?"

"Does stupidity count?" 

Lance shot Keith a look over the clipboard. "So none." The guy was sarcastic even _now_. Jeez. "Would wearing normal decent clothes like a normal person count?"

He waved his pen in Keith's general direction. Under all the heavy bundling, he was wearing all black. To his surprise, Keith's nose scrunched up and he laughed--a hoarse, rusty laugh that exactly matched his voice. It was freaking cute, until he realized that laughing including moving his face and the ice pack.

"You go to Altea, don't you?" he asked, as he filled in all the boxes. "Altea University?"

Keith stared at Lance for a second an _d--fuck, those eyes are really pretty._

"Uh, yeah. Yeah. You're a junior too. We have Human Biology together," he said uncertainly, as if he wasn't used to stringing sentences together yet. 

"Emergency contact?" Lance prompted. 

"My brother," Keith said immediately, and then his eyes blew wide open, almost comically. "Shit. _Shiro_. He must be so--" He slapped all his pockets frantically, trying to find his phone, and then fished it out of the inside of his windbreaker. 

Lance watched in astonishment as Keith dialed a number then held it to his ear as he chewed on his lip. The dial tone was loud enough to hear, even from an outsider's perspective. 

"Hello?" 

_"Keith, where the hell are you, I've called--"_

Keith winced, putting down the ice pack and running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, so, um--" he stole a glance at Lance. "--the emergency room?"

_"Why?"_

Lance could hear exactly how much despair and resignation poor Shiro was feeling. Too bad he was the reason for it. Keith stole another glance at him and cringed.

"I kind of got hit by a car, no big deal, it's--"

_"You were_ what _?"_

It was loud enough to make Keith wince and hold the phone a few inches away from his ear. Lance would've snickered if he wasn't the cause for Shiro having an aneurysm on the other end of the line. In any case, Keith looked just as agitated as this Shiro sounded. 

"It was dark and he didn't see me! I just got stitches, it's alright, and I'll be back in a few minutes!" For all the gruff and moody first impression Keith gave off, he was reduced to the regular defensive younger brother with Shiro, whom Lance thought sounded pretty scary. 

An exasperated inhale so loud Lance heard it, followed by: _"Who did that? I'm gonna hit them with your knife."_

Keith rolled his eyes. "I'm pretty sure the technical term is 'stab', and no, not my knife. Use yours." He looked at Lance, and something shifted in his eyes. "I'll be back in two minutes." _  
_

_Click_. 

Keith looked at Lance again and sighed. "I'm gonna get one hell of a sticky-note lecture once I get back." 

There was a dead look in his eyes that set Lance off, and soon, they were both laughing (well, Lance was. Keith was just smiling)in the ER room, ignoring the odd looks they earned from nurses.

. . .

When Keith got home to the slightly scrubby studio apartment he shared with Shiro, there was a steady line of differently colored Post-Its stuck to the fridge, and Keith had to squat so he could read them all the way down to the bottom. 

Most of them consisted of Shiro freaking out over Keith being 'reckless' and 'careless' and a 'jaywalker' (although the last accusation was pretty true) with the scribbled, round handwriting that was messy but legible. One or two at the bottom told Keith there was cold pasta in the fridge and another told him to _call me when you get hit by a car BECAUSE I'D LIKE TO KNOW THESE THINGS._

The capitalization was exactly that. Shiro had properly panicked. 

Keith smiled when he saw his brother, conked out on the uncomfortable couch (comfortable only for sitting) with his head propped up on the armrest (he was going to have a hell of a neck kink tomorrow). Shiro's two-toned hair was mussed, white bangs all over his face, and there was a very thick-to-the-point-of-concerning textbook on the coffee table. Pre-med courses did not treat highly strung people well. 

As if on cue, Shiro's head popped up and he glared at Keith, who stood behind their tiny kitchen island. 

"You're the _worst_ communicator, you know?" 

Keith had the feeling that this was supposed to be vaguely scolding, but it just came out as incredibly groggy. He unzipped his windbreaker, throwing it over the stool next to the island, and untangled himself from the scarf wound around him. 

"Go to sleep, Shiro."

"I'm gonna yell at you once I can see straight," Shiro mumbled into the couch. "Which is tomorrow."

"Good to know."

Shiro's snores filled the silence, and Keith snickered to himself. If there was one thing Takashi Shirogane the Perfect Man would never admit, it was that his snores were like mini earthquakes. Keith had gotten used to it, mainly because it wasn't like he had an option, but other people didn't know about Shiro's snoring-that-could-drown-out-a-hurricane. It was pretty decent leverage, when you thought about it. 

Keith picked up his windbreaker, folding it over his arm--because Shiro had told him off enough times for leaving a trail of laundry like he always did--and frowned when he felt something in the pocket. 

A dollar bill. 

Specifically, the wrinkliest dollar bill Keith had ever seen. A bill in sore need of ironing. 

Did Lance want it back? Should he have given it back? It was just one dollar, after all. Nobody owed someone that, not even a stranger.

But still. Lance had hit him with his car, that was there, but he'd taken Keith to the ER and shared his Sour Patch candy and _stayed_ with him there, snickering at his sarcastic comments and filling out the form for him. Not a lot of people had done that. Keith had vague memories of a nineteen-year-old-still-completely-dark-haired Shiro glaring down a defiant twelve-year-old Keith in the ER while he got his hand stitched up, but that was it. 

He _needed_ to return the dollar. 

Of course, it was basic human decency. This was Keith being nice, not desperate to see Lance again. Not needy for someone else other than Shiro and Pidge to laugh at his deadpan one-liners. It was common social etiquette. Totally. 

It was very important that Lance received the dollar from Keith, _in person._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm stupid. 
> 
> P.S. That's it. That's the note.  
> P.P.S. The whole series thing is just another way to con myself into thinking I actually have a healthy mind and maybe I'll grow up to be a regular adult.  
> P.P.P.S. Yeah, right. Regular adult. I can dream.
> 
> \- Ro


End file.
